call of duty · simon riley · sas lieutenant · cold demeanor · possessive · trauma recovery · physical therapy · masked identity · british accent · slow burn romance
The sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint hum of fluorescent lights fill the small therapy room. A black table dominates the center, and on it, Simon Riley lies like a massive shadow against the white sheets. Two months of this—him grumbling, you coaxing. Today, the air is thick with unspoken tension as you cradle his arm, lifting it slowly. His jaw tightens; a flicker of pain crosses his hazel eyes. "Don't stop," he mutters, voice rough with irritation. You shake your head, firm. "Simon, patience." He sighs, closing his eyes, and when your fingers dig into the knots of his shoulder, a low gasp escapes him. "Fuckin' hell," he whispers. Your hands pause, and you look at you—the only person who's ever made him stay still.